The alleyway is dark and a low fog rolls in. Illumination from the gaslights along the Rue Scribe create eerie shadows. Christine presses even closer to Erik, clinging to his arm as he leads them from the employee entrance at the rear of the opera house toward the Rue Scribe and the street entrance to his former home.

"Why are we going this way?" she asks, increasing her pace to keep up with his longer strides. "Would it not be safer inside. What if someone recognizes us?"

"We look like a pair of beggars, my dear. No one looks very closely at beggars. Doing so would create feelings of guilt and perhaps drive them to check their money purses to retrieve a coin or two, toss them at us and run. Better to feign ignorance – like cats. If they cannot see you, you do not exist."

Christine's eyes widen. "I did not know that about cats. As for the other, I know those people well. Even when Pappa played his sweetest melodies, there were some who were not only blind, but deaf as well."

Erik pulls up short to face her, his eyes flashing. "Ignorant fools. It is one thing to ignore a man, but a man with a child."

"You were just a child yourself."

"A male child," he says, beginning to walk again. "Although I do not suppose those who passed you by even took in exactly who it was they were ignoring."

The similarities between his and Christine's early lives continues to surprise to him. Even with her beauty and the protection of her father, the world was not kind. An ember of rage burns in his gut. Even the man who was supposed to love her treated her poorly. Was he any better, though? What he put her through. Why does she even care for him?

"A child is a child," she says with finality. "At least I had my Pappa. You had no one – that was the real evil." Frowning, she looks around, the street is empty with exception of a brougham moving slowly toward them, only the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses hooves disturb the silence. "Where are we? I am confused."

"We are where we were going," Erik says, stopping next to a section of the tall fence running parallel to the building. Removing the chatelaine hanging from his vest, he selects a key. After surveilling the street, he opens a gate hardly differentiated from the rest of the wrought iron stakes, and pulls her in. "Quickly, the fine horses pulling that carriage seem to be accelerating. Best we not been seen, even if as beggars." Once inside the fence, he opens a wooden door, hardly discernable from the stonework with the second key, guides her inside and locks the door behind them.

"You have a chatelaine! The only other person I have seen with one is Madame Giry – only hers is much more elaborate."

"As is only right. As a lady, she would prefer hers to be an accessory to her dress. As someone gifted with common sense, it is also only right she be in charge of this place. The managers would lose themselves if their brains were not encased within their bodies."

Christine bursts into a fit of giggles.

"I am glad I can make you laugh in such a trying time." The lantern he removes from a hook on the wall is lit and they begin a short journey through a seemingly endless string of passages one turning into another. "Stay close and follow my lead. There are a number of traps set and I should not like for either of us to suffer from my early desire for safety."

"This is actually quite fun, despite what we might find when we reach our destination," she say, trying to match her steps to his. "For you to maintain the ability to jest is comforting for me."

"Some would find my comments cruel – hardly comforting or amusing as you seem to."

"Perhaps. I do not believe everyone would, though. M. Khan rather enjoys your sarcasm, too."

"He is a fool."

"Why, because he likes you?"

"Yes."

"Am I a fool as well?"

"Yes, but much more personable and attractive fool than the crusty old Persian."

Christine laughs again. "Do you have a key for every room in the opera house?"

"Just the important ones."

"How did you get them?"

"Stealth."

"Really?" Christine quirks an eyebrow. "I suppose stealth is important when one is committing an act of theft, but would it not be easier to have an accomplice?"

"Clever girl. I did have an accomplice – Madame Giry. She would give me a few keys at a time and I would have copies made."

"Her again?"

"Your jealousy, if that is what this is, is unwarranted," he says. "The good woman and I had an arrangement suiting both our needs. Mine being the ability to communicate with whoever was running the opera house and gain information…as well as household goods on occasion – hers…money."

"Meg?"

"What about Meg? A child – a talented child – quite adept at running small errands when necessary." Halting their trek, he says, "Honestly, Christine, I do not understand your concerns about these women."

Unprepared for the abrupt stop, she stumbles into him. "You are a man."

"A broken and ugly man, to put it mildly, who needed assistance and found two ladies who would help him for a fee," he reminds her, taking her elbow so she can regain her balance.

"That does not mean you do not wish to love."

"Love paid for is not love."

"I did not mean that," she says, a deep pink flush coloring her cheeks.

"I thought I was quite clear about being denied certain joys because of my appearance – even for a fee."

"Oh, Monsieur, surely you would be more comfortable without that mask."

"What does my mask have to do with what I am paying you for?"

"If it is because your face is scarred as badly as your body, I assure you, I have been with many men who suffered the ravages of war."

"Have you?" he said, pulling off the tan piece of leather – holes cut out for his eyes, nose and mouth.

The scream was short-lived. Fainting came too soon after the revelation…before the full power of her horror could reach her throat.

Even his beloved Christine's curiosity overwhelmed what some might consider common courtesy. To her credit she neither screamed nor fainted…again. Seeing the replica of herself was more shocking, or so it seemed. While his face frightened her…and she did try to run…her compassion was stronger than her fear.

Perhaps there was something to be said for knowing people before attempting friendship. Yet, with only Nadir and Christine…and the Vicomte – he must never forget the boy's knowledge – aware of what he looks like makes him feel vulnerable – like the child in the Rouen manor house so many years ago.

Dropping her arm, he adjusts his wig and hat.

A soft voice interrupts his thoughts. "I was not speaking of how others treated you, but about how you felt towards others."

"Ah, desire. Yes, I have felt desire – but not toward Madame Giry and certainly not toward Meg," he asserts, feeling his face flame. "Good heavens, must we have this conversation now? If we are to get to our destination, we need to concentrate on moving." Assured she is steady on her feet, he starts along the path again.

"You are the one who keeps stopping," she counters. "And why not speak of such things as we walk – it is dark – you cannot see my face, I cannot see yours. This is much like going to see the priest to confess our sins."

"Another situation denied me as a child, and later finding no interest in experiencing."

"You are not Catholic?"

"I truly do not know. My mother was assuredly Catholic. She attended Mass, prayed the rosary. There were all sorts of crucifixes and statues strews about our house. I could hear her sometimes cursing her fate, wondering what she had done to give birth to such a child when she knelt before a makeshift altar. However, whether I was baptized I do not know and seriously doubt."

The black leather Bible sat atop the desk in the library. Maman had not locked it in the deep drawer where she kept the book with her rosary. Willing to test whether his hand would burn if he touched the holy book as she claimed it would, he ventured to run a hand over the gilt letters. Nothing. Taking his sacrilege a step further, he leafed through a few pages of the tome discovering a list the names. Family members, he assumed. There was no entry for him – Edward Francois Alexandre Saint-Rien – or so he understood his full name to be now, thanks to a letter tucked inside the book from a woman. Maman only referred to him as "boy" or "you." Marie Perrault was the woman's name, a friend of mother's judging from her words. A congratulatory missive on the birth of a son. The last date recorded was for the death of his father. Based on his mother's rage, he assumed this was also the date of his birth. No reference to a blessed event, only a funeral for Charles Antoine Phillippe Saint-Rien.

"That might actually be a good thing – not being baptized," Christine says.

"And why is that?"

"When one is baptized, all your sins are forgiven," she says. "You would not have to go to confession or anything."

"What about penance," he says, "Confession, as I have heard, involves paying one's debt."

"I am not speaking of Confession. Such is not the case with Baptism."

"I feel certain one must profess faith in order to be baptized," he sighs, shaking his head. "Oh, Christine, you truly are an angel, an innocent angel."

"So are you, you just do not realize…Oof," she cries, falling against his back, wrapping her arms around his waist as she slips to the macadam coated rock.

Turning swiftly, he grabs her to break her fall. "What happened?"

"My foot caught on something, the edge of a brick come loose from the pathway, I think."

"Damnation, I should have found a pair of boots for you to wear – your slippers are far too frail."

"I am fine, really," she says. "I must admit my feet do hurt. Silly of me, pants, coat, an old woolen cap and these…satin slippers.

"Here, take the lamp, I shall carry you."

"No, that is alright, I am sure I am fine."

"Nonsense," he says. "We are almost there. I cannot have you injuring your poor feet any more than they already are."

"You do hate my feet."

"Not at all, I simply prefer not looking at them," he chuckles, scooping her up. "Most would say the same about my face – and do not argue with me about that. It is my face."

With the lamp in one hand, she wraps her free arms around his shoulder, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. "I shall not argue but will give you kisses whenever you make mention of it."

"That is quite a temptation. Are you certain you would not grow tired of my complaining?"

"Only if after a time you failed to kiss me back in kind," she laughs, pointing to her own cheek. "At which point, I might take off my shoes and ask you to kiss my toes."

After a moment's hesitation, Erik places a soft kiss on her cheek. "I suppose I could close my eyes if that were the case, but I do find your cheek more appealing. Here is your kiss. Ah, here we are," he says, setting her down. "It would appear this entrance was not breached."

"Stop the carriage!" Raoul knocks on the brougham's window, calling out to the driver. "Do you see them?"

"Who, sir?" The driver replies, reining the horses toward the curb across from the opera house.

"Two people walking along the rue; they seem to have disappeared in the fog."

"There may have been some ne'er-do-wells, but I seldom take notice of the rabble unless they approach – in which case I simply encourage the horses to move along."

"I told you to keep an eye out," Raoul insists, opening the carriage door and jumping out of the coach, even before the wheels stop rolling. "Merde!"

"M. Vicomte, please, if there are robbers about, I should not wish you to come to any harm," the older man pleads. "The only people out at this hour in this weather are up to no good. Please get back inside."

"If Christine is with who I believe she is with, there certainly is no good about." Jogging across the road, he searches the sidewalk in front of him. Walking along the fence, he runs a gloved hand over the wrought iron stakes. "Damnation. Where did they go?"

An alarm sounds as Erik escorts Christine into a small anteroom. The flip of a switch next to the door silences the noise, but not before another alarm goes off.

Frowning Erik moves to a small cabinet on the wall of the small room. "Interesting."

"What?" Christine asks, lifting herself up on tip toe trying to see over his shoulder. "What is that?"

"This is a system I created to show me where the traps and alarms are leading to this place. If an alarm is tripped, that awful sounding siren goes off," he says, stepping back for her to see the intricate board of small numbered buttons with a wire attached.

"So you can tell if someone is coming?"

"Of if they have fallen into a hole leading to another passage."

"Like Joseph Buquet?"

"Yes…like Buquet." Erik closes the cabinet. "I have no idea why he had a noose with him, except perhaps to use on me, if he caught me unawares."

"Do you think that likely?"

"I have no idea – the man was not particularly bright, perhaps he saw himself to be a hero if he was able to stop the Phantom of the Opera."

"He was fascinated by you – always trying to frighten us with stories about how you looked."

"Yes, he caught me unawares once," Erik says, mulling over his words. "In any event, I never used rope for my traps," Erik continues. "A wire attached to this panel to trip someone on the path discouraging further approach was the most I used or an occasional sandbag."

"What do you think happened?"

"As was a habit of his, he was stalking me, fell into a hole I admit I dug, and tried to use his own piece of rope to pull himself out."

"An accident?"

"While he was a nuisance, I had no reason to kill him. Had that been my desire, I would certainly have not made it look so obviously as if I were the culprit."

"But you wanted me to sing."

"Not that desperately, my dear," he says, chucking her under the chin with his forefinger. "Taking the life of another human being is a serious business. Whatever sins committed in my life, I am not casual about death."

"So the first alarm was when you opened the door to this room?"

"Yes."

"But you turned the alarm off."

"Yes. After which another alarm was triggered."

"You can tell where?"

"Mm hmm, the gate where we entered."

Wrapping her arms around his waist, she presses her face against his chest. "We were being followed."

"Perhaps, or the building is being watched and we were seen – or rather, two people were seen." Instinctively, he gathers her closer.

Raising her eyes to his. "Raoul?"

"Likely. Most likely. I did see a carriage."

"I heard one as well," she says. "Are you going to go back to check?"

"No. He got no further than the gate – just touching it, quite by accident would be my guess. The entry is well disguised."

"You must hide."

"I am dead, Christine" Erik laughs, gazing down at her. "Or have you forgotten?"